Let Her Go
by Anguished Reveries
Summary: This was inspired by the song Let Her Go by Passenger. No, it is not a song fic. There are no song lyrics inside whatsoever. It's just the title. Plus, it just happens to be the song I was listening to while writing this. Clintasha endgame. Enjoy. Read and review! (Rated T for mentions of violence cause I'm a paranoid nutjob.) Not related to my other stories. Oneshot.


Sometimes he wonders what in life is truly tangible. He can cherish the feel of his bow in his hands, but he cannot hold the words that once spilled from Natasha's lips that are now slipping down and out of his grip. He's been in Tony's library a lot, and one of the most piercing quotes he's found belong to Lord Tennyson, "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

For the longest time, he'd been waiting for Natasha to go first, to say the words she herself would never accept until she was ready to. But when she said it, finally, he had been the one unable to accept it. It had only been a few months after the incident with the Tesseract and Clint was still trying to put himself back together again. He just didn't have all the King's horses or all the King's men to help him. He had been in no condition to let anyone in then, for fear they would step on his broken pieces and hurt both themselves and him.

And now, now that he's healed and ready... She isn't. He's tired, and so is she. Tired of this dance of complicated emotions, because they have been dancing around people their entire lives and they are just done _trying_. It isn't like either of them to ever give up, but the world has finally asked for too much from the both of them. Even they had their limits.

But they are still a team, still Strike Team Delta when they aren't with the Avengers. They are still pieces of a intricate machine working in unison because they were built for each other. He, who can see better from a distance, and she, who specializes in weaving her web and getting things close but never personal. They have minimal weaknesses, really, only each other. Whatever else is covered in this uniquely symbiotic relationship.

Now, though, the only dance they perform is the one of combat. Of maimed flesh, hailstorms of bullets, and the shiny-sharp sting of knives. But they are no longer perfect.

They are still the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has to offer. But no longer are they the best they can be. Sometimes he misses a step, and sometimes, so does she. There is a rift between them. They are no longer as in sync as they once were. But they are still Strike Team Delta; they are still amazingly good at their jobs, still so frighteningly talented at the tricks of their respective trades of _blood_ and _pain_ and _screams_ that are not always their own.

Until the day he misses a crucial step and it costs him. It does not take his life, no, God must think that death is too good for him. Clint is instead stripped of everything he holds dear. Of her.

He should have been watching her back. This was close combat and he could not afford to be sloppy and yet he had. It took that, just that, to finally bring an end to the infamous Black Widow.

When she falls, only allowing herself to collapse after the threat is eliminated because that is still her mission, her _priority_, he falls with her. It's bad, and he cannot bring himself to look at the wound, gushing red like her ledger. With shaking hands, he applies pressure, and the sound of her soft whimper wounds his soul. He knew that later her pained moans would haunt his dreams.

But she is still _strong_, so strong that he nearly convinces himself that she'll make it, _pull through_, hold on until the med evac gets there. Then he remembers- they are Strike Team Delta. They have never needed an extraction and will likely not receive one until Strike Team Delta was no longer a team. Her hand grips his wrist, nearly breaking it. "Clint," she gasps, blood bubbling at the edges of her mouth to stain her lily skin, the same eerie shade as her curls.

"What is it, Nat?"

Her breathing is rapid, rasping, and shallow. Yet her voice retains is husky beauty. "Lie to me... Tell me it's going to be alright." She's begging. He can't believe it. The Black Widow didn't beg. But this wasn't her. This was not Natasha Romanoff, this was Natalia Alianova Romanova, who was not an assassin, but a woman, dying and frightened.

Tears are welling up in his eyes, distorting his usually perfect vision and he's angry because he can't stand crying. It would only rob his of his last chance to see her clearly. He does as she asks, the words falling from his lips robotically. He's lied before, but never like this. "You're going to be okay, Nat. We'll go home and you'll have a scar and we'll joke about this as we eat shawarma-" A sob cuts off his babble.

He's breaking before she does, as if he was the one dying in the other's arms. "I'm so sorry, Tasha..."

Her green eyes are like her blades, steely even in the face of death. "Don't say that," she growls out, harsh as the edge of a serrated knife.

"I-okay, Nat. What do you want me to say?"

She's drifting, her eyes are unfocused, breathing slow. "Remember when you asked me what I wanted to be?"

"Yeah," he whispers, too afraid to raise his voice lest he drown out her precious words.

"I know now."

"Are you gonna tell me?"

"I want to be yours." Her eyes regain her razor-sharp focus as she meets his gaze.

"Natasha..." It feels as if his heart is slowing along with hers.

"Tell me, Clint, tell me you still want me-" A cough racks her slender frame, and it kills him to see her drowning in her own blood as her fingers tighten around his wrist once more. He can feel the ligaments straining, almost popping, and doesn't care. He doesn't care that he needs his wrists intact to notch an arrow. Because without her, there would be no more conviction to his shots, and that's what made him the best archer in the world.

"I do, God, Nat, I do. I love you."

She smiles weakly, "Love is for children." This time, her tone is heartbreakingly playful.

"I'll be a child. Just-please, stay. I'll be whatever you want me to be, do whatever you want me to do-"

"Clint." Her jaw tightens, and he knows she's in pain, so much pain. Her eyes say the words she cannot. _You promised_.

A blade is slipped into his hand from hers, the one knife she never used no matter what the situation was. She'd always said that this one was for her. And she had made him promise to use it if ever the situation arose.

"I can't, Nat, I can't-"

"I love you, Clint. Don't be stubborn. Do it." She tilts her neck up in the ultimate sign of surrender. "Make it quick."

He leans down, shaking, and presses the edge against the silk of her porcelain skin. But he doesn't move the blade. Leaning down, he presses his lips against hers, pouring his heart and soul into the passionate exchange. Then he does it, feeling her stiffen then relax, her last sigh becoming his own breath. And he tries so hard not to let go of it but he has to breathe, it's instinct.

He'd been too late. Too late to reciprocate her feelings in time and avoid this, too late to save her. He had failed.

When he returns to the Tower, without her, the others stare at him in silence as he walks out of the elevator, his hands still stained with her blood. Pepper realizes it first and drops her travel mug of coffee, the metal hitting the wooden floor with a loud thud that makes everyone flinch but him. Then she drops with a sound between a shriek and a wail. Tony catches her, but he's forced to the ground as well. They shake, holding each other, and it makes Clint nearly sick with anger and jealousy. But those feelings make him feel even worse about himself.

Thor immediately heads to Asgard to light a funeral barge to send towards Valhalla. Bruce's eyes flash green, and he has to leave quickly. Steve's smart though, nodding to him with understanding before giving him space.

Clint heads for their floor, and curls up on her bed, on her rumpled sheets, and just breathes in her scent like a man deprived of oxygen. He's sobbing, like a seal has burst within him, and his face is twisted into a mask of grief. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, for days. When Jarvis tries to advise him, he quickly fires an arrow at random, and that makes the AI quiet down. When the team threatens to break down the door, he opens it, if only to spare her room from damage.

They put food on a his plate, and coax him into showering. After that, he heads for the training room. For the first time, he casts aside his bow the whole time, gravitating instead towards the knives. But he cannot capture her accuracy.

He wakes up screaming more often than not. S.H.I.E.L.D. does not call him, and perhaps his friends had something to do with that.

Soon, however, he realizes it. He can never work for them again. Natasha had been his partner, his reason for being. He can't function properly without her. He knows no dance without a partner, and if he ever had, she'd made him forget about them long ago.

So one night, he locates her secret stash of vodka and drinks himself into a stupor. He writes drunken, sloppy notes explaining his feelings. But before he can decide on which method to use, he passes out from over-intoxication.

The next day, he revises the notes and places them into respective envelopes before leaving the Tower, taking with him only the knife he had used to slit her throat.

He finds himself at the cemetery, next to her grave. The place where her body resided. He never really did believe it was her, though. It wasn't her soul there, nor her vibrancy.

And for a long time, he sits there, waiting. Waiting for what, exactly, he didn't know. Then he sees it, the sun setting. Today of all days, the sunset was all the shades of red. Like a knife's edge, a thin slice of the sky is like blood. It's a sign, it's _the_ sign. It's her.

His hands don't shake when he moves the blade to rest on his own throat. It's as if her own hands are steadying his, her voice whispering softly in his ear that it was alright, that they would be together soon. He feels as if he can turn around and just see her in her perfect glory, urging him to come to her. He's made her wait long enough.

Together, they draw the blade across his throat, so deep that death is almost instantaneous. Even if it isn't, he doesn't know. He's already walking towards the serenity her embrace offers.

She takes his hand in hers, and he can feel her soft skin against the calluses on his fingers from the bow strings. He can smell her distinct perfume, hear her honeyed laugh, and see her eyes, an even brighter green than he'd ever seen. Emerald, so like the villain's, yet so different from Loki's malicious glare. Hers are soft and full of warmth, of light, and of promises kept.

Natasha does not need to lead him to any light. She's already his heaven.

* * *

Author's Note: I am so, so sorry for not warning you. If I had, you wouldn't have read it.


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